


Like A Teen Girl

by Tolpen



Category: W.I.T.C.H.
Genre: Cedric Lives, Competition, Dimension Travel, Don't copy to another site, Gen, Magical Girls, Minor Character Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pain, Post-Canon, Redemption, Scars, Second Chances, Shapeshifting, Swimming, animal turned human, in this case an umpteenth chance, warrior culture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-15
Updated: 2019-11-18
Packaged: 2021-01-31 03:40:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21439615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tolpen/pseuds/Tolpen
Summary: Cedric has died, but he is much better now, and he also shouldn't do any evil unless he wants to go right back tot he Tower of Mists. Himerish is dying by inches to do something interesting and is a compulsive goody-shoe. Neither of them really minds wearing a skirt, so they can save worlds with the power of love, friendship, poorly restricted violence, and hope.Based on the comic-verse, author's solution for coping with Events She Is Not Over Yet.Originally meant as a light-hearted comedy with the occasional words of wisdom and moral, and maybe some lore-exploring/building. Since paragraph two of chapter two it has turned out there will be pain and suffering.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	1. Prologue

Light.

Everything is is spinning.

Light, even behind closed eyelids. It's omnipresent. Radiant, blinding, magnificent light.

Everything is in motion, spinning, turning... Everything? Not everything. There is a centre to this dance of movement, static, immovable.

It is a body. A man waking from sleep deep as death. What does he feel? Pain. This is pain in pure form, its corporal embodiment.

But before he can open his eyes fully a hand reaches from beyond and pulls him out of the light and the hypnotic movement.

There is a solid surface, a cold floor. Everything is stable, static, unmoving. Silent.

“Ow. Blast.”1

“Do you think you can sit up?”

As it turns our, he cannot. Not without help. Finally he opens his eyes. Even here everything is filled with light, but softly so, not brightly piercing. White like bone, like milk, like spring clouds, like the bark of a birch, white like peaceful life.

And there is a face. A familiar face. There is a name to it, if only his head would stop hurting so much. Everything hurts. Every muscle is stiff. He feels like a corpse.

_Oh yes, I died._

He can light this pyre when he gets the flint and tinder. For now he tries to focus on the face. It takes a moment for the correct memory to appear: “Endarno?”

“I acknowledge that we have met briefly and the fact that you remember me by name flatters me. Allow me.” Endarno helps him to his feet and with the first steps.

“Can't I just lay back down?” His whole body is protesting every move he takes. He is led through the empty hall like a doll. The knees are horrible. He doesn't want to have knees, they are too complicated. But right now he feels too... too _drained _to do anything about it.

Endarno's brow furrows when he replies in a low voice: “Not here. In my chambers, once we reach them. But here we could be seen.”

“You make it sound like you're running it behind the Oracle's back. Is this a treason, or a date?”

“Cedric,” Endarno hisses, “this is neither time nor matter suitable for jests.”

“Well excuse me, I'm having quite the morning.”

They walk in silence after that. Or rather, Endarno walks and Cedric is half-dragged, half-pushed. When they turn a corner, Endarno mutters: “And just for the record: This is not a date.”

“Your loss.”

“And I really, really hope,” the Elder casts his gaze towards the ceiling in a plea, “that it's not a treason either.”

A while later Cedric is curled up on a futon in a position that hurts him the least. He would have more positions to choose from if the futon was at least as comfortable as a rock. Already he feels better, but that doesn't mean he feels well.

“... When she gave me the book, I sensed your essence within it,” Endarno continues his explanation even in spite of that Cedric is only partially able to process the words. “I entrusted it into the care of the Cosmos of Abeyance in the hope you would regenerate from your wounds, given enough time. But destiny, it seems, did not want it for you to heal fully, and I was forced to retrieve you early.”

“Why?” Cedric is flexing his fingers. They feel alien to him. If it didn't feel as thought liquid fire is running through them, he would not believe they are his.

“One of the White Knights was gravely injured. He is moved to the Cosmos as we are speaking. If you have remained there, you would have been discovered.”

He sits up and gives Endarno a very wary look. “You have kept my survival secret from all of Kandrakar, then. _Why?_”

Silence. The man is searching for the words to give an answer. Finally eh finds them: “At first, I had many doubts. The healing powers of the Cosmos of Abeyance are great, but it cannot revert death. I could only pray at the time, and I did not want to give false hopes to... to anyone.” He averts his look and studies the intricate pattern on the walls. “When the first noticeable progress in your recovery appeared, a lot of time had passed. Were I to speak about you to the Oracle or to the Council, I would as well have to explain why I didn't do it sooner, and I did not know how to do that. Even now I cannot find the words, and I doubt that I ever will. That you are alive is unknown to everyone but is you can thank only to my cowardice.”

More silence. Eventually Endarno stops restlessly pacing back and forth through his chamber and sits down on the futon next to Cedric.

The man slowly sits up. He now feels less like a ball of pain given shape and more like a sentient being. He assumes that his current state can be blamed on not being fully healed yet. He tries to sink deeper into the white robe, or maybe it is a nightshirt, which Endarno has provided on him. Cedric hasn't realized it until the robe was handed to him that the whole time he was naked. He doesn't think himself a modest man or easily embarrassed, but just the thought he was seen completely bare makes him blush.

Instead of addressing it, he asks: “How long was in there?”

“Eleven years.” As if saying it outright and quickly would make the transition less painful.

“Eleven years?!” Cedric is horrified. “Oh broken moons, I think I had left the kitchen light on.”

Another silence stretches between them. In the outside halls someone calls for a passing-by honourable Elder. There are footsteps to be heard, slow like a frozen heart.

Cedric decides to bite: “It is obvious to me that I cannot stay. What are my options?”

“In accordance to the rules, I should lock you back into your cell in the Tower of Mists for everything you have done and caused, even if I consider the actions you took during your rehabilitation time.”

As if an invisible hand caught Cedric's spine and ripped it out, he curls into a ball and shivers. Maybe it is because the room is cold. Perhaps it is the coldness in Endarno's voice. He wants to lie to himself that surely those are the reasons, that it has nothing to do with the cold shower of his own conscience, because he has nothing like a conscience. Or feelings, for that matter.

“Or you can promise good behaviour and I'll throw you out into one of the many words Kandrakar is looking over, and for as long as you do not cause trouble and, by the light of the stars, you keep somewhat low profile, I can pretend this conversation has never happened.”

Cedric nods. That sounds good to him.

“But,” Endarno proves that even in speaking he is a warrior and his blade, or in this case words, strike in the least expected of times, “the moment you stir the waters which is mean to be calm, the instant you veer back towards the evil... be very afraid, for I will be after your heels and nothing will stop me. Not your allies, not the Guardians, not even the Oracle, and certainly nothing you could or would do. Understood?”

He's been slowly advancing towards him while Cedric was trying to pull away. Now Cedric has the back of his head buried in the hard sheets and Endarno's eyes, cold and turbulent like a gale, are all that he can see. That man is terrific, in the sense that he is terrifying him. He gulps. “Yes. Perfectly clear.”

“In that case,” Endarno's face softens back to its neutral expression and he stands up, “we should go. I believe you have recovered enough to walk on your own.”

Cedric's body does not believe it, and the knees are still being absolute bastards and for the record so are the ankles, but the man himself does not voice any complaints his body is giving him. With his head hung, both to obscure his face and because it feels too heavy to keep it up, he follows Endarno to the Hall of the Ways.

It is fortunately empty..

Endarno opens the portal. It shimmers and glistens in the still air.

“Where does it lead to?” Cedric asks cautiously.

Endarno's answer is curt: “Be grateful that I don't know that.”

Cedric nods and takes a step into the unknown.

There is light.

Movement.

Everything is spinning, dancing. Moons around the planets. Planets around the stars. Stars around their galaxies. Galaxies around –

Light. Blinding, piercing light, almost painful. Light so bright that even with eyes closed Cedric can see, and what he sees is himself from outside and inside. For a moment he can see _everything_. The feeling is suffocating.

Then it stops and he feels the heaviness of gravity. With his eyes closed he takes in his new surroundings.

Something soft and cold under his feet. Grass. Humid air. Breeze in his hair. He can hear birds chipping and singing, but he cannot tell the species by it. Sun warmth on his left ear and shoulder. Snakes hissing and slithering around. In the distance there are waves crashing against rocks. Perhaps a sea?

When he opens his eyes, he is greeted by a sky as crimson as blood which fades into inky blackness. As Cedric turns left on the horizon he sees tall spires against the two setting suns.

He smiles and takes a step forward.

_________

1I was _this_ close to the first spoken words of this thing being “Fuck,” but I figured that'd be too predictable. But I wanted to let you know that the fuck would be here.


	2. The Emperor's Tests: Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On Basilíade the Traveller participates in the Emperor's Tests.

People of Meridian believe in many things: That if you lose a thing someone gifted to you, the gift has just protected you from death. That if you think of someone far away, they get a hiccup. That while some stars in the night sky are suns of the other worlds far away, more than half of them are actually just fireflies glued to the sky-dome and if one wriggles and writhes too much, it breaks free and falls down as a shooting star. That the Snoring Mountains are actually a dormant winged serpent as old as Metamoor itself, maybe even older. That in Kandrakar is the Library of Life where there is a book for each person ever born, living or to yet to wake into this world, in it that book their whole life is written, their thoughts, feelings, memories and destiny, and to get a hold of such a book is to hold the person's life itself.1 Here is a memory which would be written in shaken letters:

_Rough coarse stone beneath knees, palms, elbows. Pain. Pain as thought he was braking apart. Cedric has shed before, but it has been never like this. He would visit the hot springs where the nearly boiling water would loosen his old skin and in a matter of hours or even minutes it would slip off him like a satin nightshirt. Usually it would be in one piece, for a strange reason Cedric felt pride at that._

_He is not sure what he has done or hasn't done to earn Phobos's wrath. Perhaps it was nothing at all and the Prince, the Darkness of Meridian, was just feeling cruel. Whatever the reason, two days before his shedding would come, Phobos ordered for Cedric to be locked deep within the dungeons._

_So here he is now, three days later. His old skin is cracked and is peeling off of him in strips and flakes. It is dry, the tissue is still connected to the soft and too sensitive skin underneath and it hurts. He tries to help it go faster, he claws at the cracks to tear them open, he rubs against the jagged unfeeling stone of the cell for the old skin to rip. More often than not it causes him to bleed, his youth scales are not yet hard enough to offer him protection from rough surfaces. All the better, the blood makes his body slick and in those places the shedding does not hurt that much at least._

_Cedric reminds himself that it could be worse. That he could have changed during the past cycle. His form, his true form, reflects who he is on the inside. Rapid metamorphosis of for is painful. Cedric remembers the weeks of spasms and cramps which rendered him practically motionless and which used to be the heralds of his upcoming shedding in the first cycles he spent as Phobos's servant. He considers the pain being worth it, however. Each shedding made him bigger, stronger, more dangerous, more monstrous, more useful for the Prince._

_That pain was growth. This pain, this does not serve any purpose. It is only suffering. He wants to think that he is choking back tears and cries out of pride, that he knows he should be immune to the feelings of rage and despair and pain, and so he chooses to be._

_In truth it is because Phobos is watching. The Darkness of Meridian is standing in front of the cell, motionless, wordless, without any expression, and he is watching Cedric tearing himself apart to break free._

_In its entirety it takes a week. A week of blood and suffering. When the last old scale is ripped off, it was on the inside of his forearm, when the last drop of blood has dried, then the bars are moved aside and the cell is open._

_Cedric, as exhausted as he is, puts on his human face and kneels before his Prince, head bowed low enough to breathe dust stirred by the hem of Phobos's robe._

_Something unexpected happens: The Prince reaches forward to Cedric and helps him to rise to his feet. He pulls the man covered in a coat of dust and dried blood into an embrace. It is warm, it seeps into the naked body._

_There are patches of skin that hasn't been exposed to the stiff underground air for longer than twenty minutes, it is still soft and vulnerable. Without a fail, Phobos finds two of them – the inner forearm and the back of nape – and he digs his nails in. Cedric gasps. A single tear rolls onto his cheek, the first tear he has shed here._

“_I have never thought you could be beautiful,” Phobos murmurs softly. He smiles and his faithful servant looks up to him with gentle disbelief and hopeful expectation. “Yes... I have never thought. And now... Now I know you will __**never **be.”_

This was then and there. Now and here...

Observe the pagodas, their top roofs disappear in the clouds. Look at the gold lining very corner, shining as the sun. The white walls, the blue ribbons are together like a sky. The open platforms create the illusion of flying. Colourful kites sail through the air like eternal birds of paradise.

This is Heaven's Reach. You might be a settled farmer, you might be a mighty warrior or a wise sage, you might be an outrider with shaneras faster than the midnight wind, you might be anyone, but you have heard of Heaven's Reach.

Here is the seat of the Emperor. Uneasy lies the golden mantle on his shoulders today. Every facet of the rubies in the throne room reminds him of fire. Every pearl in his sceptre seems to him as bone. Death, doom, and peril, that is all that is on his mind.

Last full moon, three days ago, the star-reader visited him and warned him that the Runics will attempt to gather the six Lunar Keys to free the six imprisoned beasts which will obliterate all of Basilíade should they roam free. Already the Runics have the Waning Crescent Key and seek where the beast is held captive.

The same day the Emperor made it known that a contest will be held today at Heaven's Reach where the strongest, wittiest and bravest of warriors will be chosen to protect Basilíade from this threat. The courtyard is crowded. There is no dishonour in not being chosen today, the only dishonour is not participating, in being unwilling to protect the world and everyone within it.

The Emperor slowly walks out of the throne room onto the balcony. Today his beautiful robes don't make him feel powerful at all, today they are only additional weight he has to carry. He takes them off, discarding them on the floor. He reaches the balcony only the lowermost robe which is simply green with a yellow belt, practical wear separating skin from air. None of the people in the courtyard recognize him, save for the guards who are not allowed to move from their spot. In this solemn moment the Emperor has a chance to watch the participants.

There are the Panther Warriors, swift hunters who pride themselves in being able to track any prey. The men and women in the black and red armour, those are members of the Asha clan who rule better their minds than their swords, and they are excellent in ruling their swords. There are many people who have no allegiance in particular, only skill. A group of promising warriors from the Serpent Shrine have just arrived through the Cloud Gate, the seven people are wearing plain white masks, and even the one shanera which carries all their material possession on its furry back is wearing a mask on its head.

There is a man in plain brown clothes with a haversack over his shoulder. He is not a mere traveller, he is the Traveller. The definite article and capital letter separate the Traveller from people who simply move from one place to another, and marks him as one for whom travelling is a purpose of life. The Traveller does not have to move just between places but between the worlds as well. However he has found out that all the ways lead him back here to Basilíade.

He has arrived early today, already has stretched and eaten and now is walking around the courtyard like a man who has been here many times before but a long time ago, because he keeps squinting at all new additions and places that have changed.

The Traveller has now walked into the inner area of the courtyard and as soon as he does a scribe in blue robes stops him: “This area is restricted, only the participants in the Emperor's Tests are allowed to enter.”

“This is well,” the Traveller smiles and taps his bare feet on the marble tiles, “for I wish to participate. However, in the chaos of brave warriors here I have not yet found a place to sign up, and thus I have figured out that if I come here, somebody will point me in the right direction.”

The scribe smiles as she produces a heavy scroll, and a sheet of paper. “Then you have been looking for me without knowing it. I need you to fill out this form and to sign your name here on the list of participants. Legibly, please, my eyes are no longer what they used to be.”

The Traveller takes the brush she offers to him and writes down his name:_ Himerish. _Then he is allowed to enter. Already a queue has formed behind him; some of the participants are signing up only now like he, others have the scribe to search for their name on the scroll.

The inner courtyard is more serene than the outer one – no market stalls, no children in awe staring at the warriors of whom many will enter legends. There are shouts and movement of those who are training, but there is a method to it. Here even changes are happening in order. Himerish sits down in a quiet corner, legs folded underneath him, hands in relaxed fists rested on his knees, eyes closed. He is not praying, he is simply waiting. Over the time he's become very good at it.

The Emperor's Tests are four in number: one for the Heart, one for the Mind, one for the Flesh, and finally one for the Blood. The Test of the Blood is, in fact, a very recent addition to the tradition, and is in fact just a medical check up, because during the hunt for Amaru the Deceiver the leader of the hunting party who has gone trough the trials passed away to a wasting illness two days after the hunt had began. That would not have been that much of a tragedy, but the illness was contagious, and the only reason the Deceiver was brought to an end was because the last member of the hunting party sneezed at him with his dying breath.

Usually half of the participants of the Tests are ruled out during the Test of the Blood for various nothings and scratch wounds which the physicians consider dangers to health such as untreated pneumonia or broken limbs.

Finally the gong is struck, marking the official beginning of the Emperor's Tests. The Test of the Blood is announced to be the first. Himerish can hear groans and half-voiced complaints. He himself is at peace, he might not be a young man anymore, but his condition is great and hasn't been sick in ages, literally. He calmly waits even longer until his name is called. He follows the young scribe in sky-blue robe into the palace where one of the many door is opened for him.

There are two physicians in long white robes in the room. The sterility of the place remind Himerish of Kandrakar, maybe save for the tools and decorations. A folding screen splits the room in two halves. One of the physicians, his feline features are exceptionally prominent, is in the right half helping another participant to get dressed. The man has his back turned, showing only his pale scarred back with a large faded burn between his shoulder blades which resembles a sun in shape. When the man briefly turns his head to put on his shirt, Himerish notes that he is wearing the blank white mask of Serpent Shrine.

He has no desire to stare at another men getting dressed, and even if he did, he is not given the chance – the other physician pulls him to the other half of the room and begins the check up. It takes fifteen painstakingly long minutes. He learns that since the last medical check up, which was three cycles ago, he's lost one kat2 of weight. But besides that he is healthy as a shanera, only the physician advises him to eat something more the rice, salt, and lettuce. “Seaweed, perhaps,” the young man jests, “seaweed can be very healthy, granted you don't bite in the poisonous kind.”

When Himerish returns to the inner courtyard, it is much emptier than before. All the participants who haven't passed the Test of the Blood have left. He smiles contently.

According to the tradition, what ought to follow is the Test of Flesh. If there is a Test he is worried about, it is this one. He's never been one for racing, he's always preferred his own pace. After all, he is the Traveller, what travel would it be if it was rushed?

_________

1Two of these are actually true, believe it or not!

2About the weight of a cat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feed me comments, maybe?


	3. The Emperor's Tests: Flesh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The participants go swimming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter's title unclear: no smut is involved

If you let your thoughts wander, they can find places you have long thought forgotten, memories you thought to be lost. In this thoughts are like children. If you leave them unattended they might get through the locked doors and up the creaking staircase where they find memories hidden away in long-abandoned corners where they cannot make the mind unpresentable for distant yet strict relatives who come to visit. Here is one such memory:

_Cold metal against his scales as he coils around and through the unfamiliar object. The big soft-skinned bipedals with no scales and only patches of long fur in strange places who shed their strange skin every day and then put it back on have a specific sound for this shiny metallic object. They cry “my key!” and then they tap the folds in their fake skins and rush back the way they came, searching for a shiny piece of metal barely bigger than the head of the one who sleeps among rose roots._

_Sleeps-Among-Rose-Roots coils tighter around the key. He has this all figured out: it is a game. The warm-blooded bipedals throw the key somewhere in the forest and flowers they care about so much and then they search for it. Winner is the one who finds it the first, obviously._

_It is all perfectly logical, the Hignesses and Majesties, as the bipedals in shiny skins call each other, love to play hiding and searching again. Usually their youngling hides somewhere and the mature ones then look for him, even try to lure him out with sounds. It is barely challenging, but a good training for both hunting and hiding as a prey. Sleeps-Among-Rose-Roots appreciates the effort._

_There isn't anyone he could play with, not any longer. The entirety of his clutch has gone. But he wants to try this searching game – the cold key with only slightly metallic smell would prove itself a challenge even for him. And so he waits for a shiny bipedal to appear so he could approach them and offer to play._

_But he hasn't seen any young playful shiny-skin in such a long time. And even the adult ones, much larger than Sleeps-Among-Rose-Root is and will be for countless sheddings, no longer come into this place of trees and flowers. But this place, the “garden” as the bipedals call it, is safe. Except for them and Sleeps-Among-Rose-Roots there are almost no predators. Granted, there are birds who would make a snack out of him if they saw him and caught him, but they are nowhere near the size when they'd be any danger to the shiny-skins. What could have happened to them? Should he be afraid of it too?_

_There is one of those two-legged fake-skinned Highnesses. It comes to this garden, inspects the flowers (it does not care for the trees which is a shame, because the trees are far more interesting), and then** shapes **one or two flowers to look like him._

_Sleeps-Among-Rose-Roots admires its capability for **shaping.** He can only shape himself and only slightly – change his colours or make himself reminiscent of a root or a twig or a stalk of a flower, even a long bird-feather. If he coils around himself tightly, he can look like a rock. Once he sheds his skin all the way to his wings, he'll be able to make them look like leaves or petals._

_There it is, the last of the softskin who come here. Its long fur trails like a river behind it. It kneels down and examines the rose beneath which Sleeps-Among-Rose-Roots is hidden. No, he doesn't want to play with this one. Especially now when it is showing its teeth, showing teeth means an attack._

_The shiny-skin rises its claws towards the rose and makes the **shaping** to happen. But the strangle glow flows through the rose to its roots and it strikes him right in head and tail. Scared he lets go off the key and attempts to slither away._

_It feels very strange. Everything around him is shrinking, wait no! He is growing. There are limbs he has never had before, he feels his skin softening, his senses numbing and sharpening at the same time. It does not hurt, but certainly it is not pleasant. He closes his eyes and waits for it to be over._

_It is gone as suddenly as it began. He is aware of new knowledge roaming free through his mind. Words and names he's never known as a winged serpent. Winged serpent in itself is a new name._

_**Human** is another of the new names. And so is **master**. The shiny-skinned shaper in front of him is both. Without knowing why he rises from the ground and kneels before the man, it feels appropriate. Long strands of golden fur, now he knows it is called hair, fall all around him like a waterfall._

_He can speak human words now. For a brief moment he wonders what to say. Should he ask to play with the key? That feels wrong for some reason. Should he introduce himself? No, he senses that the master does not care for anything he could say about himself, that it is not important._

_But he should say something, the silence in the garden demands words to swallow._

_When he speaks, it is the first time he hears his own voice, both very human and not human at all. He says: “My Prince.”_

The participants are led to the garden. Himerish quietly ponders how costly it is to rebuild a garden to be fit for the Tests and then to turn it the same way it was. As it turns out, not much if your builders are good swimmers.

They stand at the lake from which wooden poles rise to the sky, shifty bridges are stretched between some of them, floating platforms bobble on the water surface and float in the air alike, in places there are ladders which connect them or don't lead anywhere at all.

“This,” the scribe overseeing them, “is where the Test of Flesh is to take place. In the middle of the lake is an isle and on the isle there are sixty ribbons in the Emperor's colours. Once you tie one of the ribbons around yourself the spell on it makes you intangible to everyone except me. Your task is, as you have probably guess right now, to bring me a ribbon to prove that you are fast and skilled enough to match and best the Runics who are trying to claim the Lunar Keys. Is anything unclear?”

One participant, a young girl in the uniform of the Panther Guard who reminds Himerish of Luba, asks: “Do we have to remain dry?”

The scribe smiles a mischievous grin: “If you'd like to go for a bath, feel free to. The ribbons are waterproof and there are no man-eating fish in the lake that I know of. But three streams fill this lake and you might find yourself surprised by the currents beneath the surface. Any other questions?” She waits for a beat. “Then please prepare yourself.”

The participants line themselves alongside the lake-bank in silence. The sun is right overhead and the wind rises, making the lake shimmer and waves on it mill around as if the water was boiling. A few stray waves tickle at Himerish's bare toes, the water is freezing cold, and he takes a step back.

The overseeing scribe nods at her assistant. The gong is struck, the Test begins. Everyone rushes forwards.

The rules of the Test of Flesh don't say anything about hindering your opponents. They only forbid you to bring weapons. But everyone who's grown up in Basilíade knowns that the greatest weapon you have is your very own body and you cannot be rid of that. Even before Himerish can take the first step, someone tackles him into the sand to make themselves advance.

He bites down a curse and darts for a low yet solid pole stuck in the lake. There are a few ahead of him who have chose this path – jumping from pole to pole, either from the top or the side like a frog would. Often they are heavier than he is, and not only because plenty of them are dressed in full armour, and the poles which aren't placed in the lake firmly sway under their weight. That part of Himerish's brain which is not fully focused on keeping his balance admires the resemblance of the obstacle course to wild reed.

There are splashes to his side, behind him, even in front of him as people fall off into the cold water. The isle is still far away, but luckily no mist is obscuring it. Or perhaps unfortunately, because a lot of other participants are ahead of him.

He makes his next move just in time as the Panther Guard member who has previously asked if they have to make their way dry, jumps at him with the intent to push him into the water. Because he has moved out of the way and the pole moved in reaction, the woman misses both him and any landing place. Splash! She yelps, but apparently she isn't hurt as she begins to cuss and curse right away. Himerish leaves her behind without as much as turning around.

He doesn't turn even when the woman shrieks that something touched her leg, oh Elders of Kandrakar protect us, something is in the water! By the sound of it she makes it to the nearest floating platform swimming doggy-style, and then turns on her heel and runs back to the coast. A few other follow her.

That's when Himerish notices it. He doesn't see it, the water is too dark for that, but he feels it. Something swimming past the pole he is now perched on. It has to be large because in its wake a current is left which sways the pole to side and back up. He never loses his balance, but the same cannot be said for the other participants ahead of him. When the thing swims past them, it is moving in a zig-zag manner between the poles, the poles sway and swing to all sides with growing strength. Whatever the creature is, it is gaining speed and it is headed towards the isle.

He decides to take an advantage of the sudden change on the field. He jumps, the next pole is nearly laying on the water. It takes a fraction of a moment to gain balance and then he runs. When bent like this, the poles are nearly touching each other making a line as stable as a rope, which is more than enough for Himerish. But he needs to go faster because already he can see the poles straightening.

The last one, just a few meters from where the water meets the isle, splinters to pieces when he lands on it, the combined tension of the current below, of the wood itself and of his own moving weight was too much for it to bear.

He lands knee deep in water. Almost he rises to his feet when a shadow crosses him. He looks up to see what is the matter: an adept of the Serpent Shrine, the mandatory black uniform and white mask soaking wet, has just jumped over him and dived into the water like a kingfisher. Himerish recalls the topknot of white hair, he has already met this participant during the Test of Blood.

There is no time to waste by rejoicing of this reunion, there is still the Test of Flesh to pass. He makes his way up the steep hill of the isle to the old oak. There are still plenty of ribbons left, the gold and blue shimmers in the light of the two suns.

He takes one and ties it around his ankle. He feels the spell shrouding him almost instantly. There is no need to rush the way back. The Travellers are not in hurry, the water is not that cold after all and a light swim is always good for relaxing.

He doesn't even arrive to the scribe as the last, and definitely he isn't the only participant sodden all the way through. He rests himself on the grass waiting for the Test to come to its end, and for suns to dry his clothes. The feeling of satisfaction in his heart is great.

The next should be the Test of Mind. Perhaps he is too confident about it, but there is certainly no way he could lose _there_.


End file.
